


Drosophila melanogaster

by lalejandra



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season 1, Transformative Works Welcome, learning how to be flatmates, learning how to be friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:34:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Sherlock was never taught to take up as little space as possible. Joan is kind of jealous of that.





	Drosophila melanogaster

Sherlock leaves a half-full mug of spaghetti -- with cream sauce and peas, which is fine, but also, for some reason, blood sausage -- in Joan's room. They're in a rush to get to a crime scene and he doesn't respect other people's space. She knows this about him. Actually, she's determined that it's not so much that he doesn't respect other people's space consciously as it is that every space he's in is his own while he's there.

He was never taught to take up as little space as possible. Joan is kind of jealous of that.

But she's annoyed when they get back and the cup is on her nightstand. She yells down for him, and he yells back something completely incomprehensible. She flops into bed and texts him: GET YOUR FOOD OUT OF MY ROOM.

She's not going to do it for him. She doesn't take up a lot of space, but the space she takes up is _hers_ and she's finally learning to understand what that _means_. Ironically, thanks in part to Sherlock.

Joan falls asleep with her tablet on her lap and her light on, still thinking about that day's -- easy even for her -- murder.

*

In the morning, there's a fly on her. A fruit fly. The Sherlock in her head gleefully proclaims, _Drosophila melanogaster!_ and goes on to talk to her about genetics. She ignores the voice.

Brooklyn is prone to these damn things, especially in the summer, and it's one of the reasons she's so grateful Mrs. Hudson comes in and washes their dishes. But, oh, look, Sherlock never came in and took his stupid mug out of her room. That + humidity = fruit flies _in her room_.

She's going to kill him. Murder him to death. With her hands. Or maybe a shoe. One of those useless, ridiculous high-heeled snow boots he bought her during the blizzard.

*

"You have said _several_ times that I am not to enter your bedroom without permission," says Sherlock primly.

"I _gave_ permission when I specifically asked you to _come get your food._ " She keeps her voice icy. "You are just _lazy_."

"Ah, I beg to differ," he says in that stupid smug voice that always makes her want to hit him. _Swing from the left_ , she reminds herself, like she'd ever really do it. "You often tell me I work too much and too hard, and must remind me to take breaks, and eat, and, oh, yes, sleep. These are not the signs of someone who is lazy, are they? No, they are not. They are the signs of someone who has very different priori --"

"Okay, stop. Yes, you have different priorities. And nothing makes that more clear than when you _disrespect my space_. Now there are _fruit flies_ in my bedroom --"

"Ah, _Drosophila melanogaster!_ " he says, in the same gleeful tone he'd had in her brain that morning.

She lets out a shriek of rage -- she'd been holding it in and holding it in, but oh god, she just wants to punch him in his face -- and stomps out of the room. Of course, Joan had known that needing to storm out would be a possibility, so she'd not bothered with a shower and instead had dressed for running. She legs it into Williamsburg, warming up, walking faster and faster, and then starts running when she hits the McCarren Park track.

*

Sherlock isn't around when Joan gets back. She looks at the closed door of her room and sighs. She doesn't want to go in. Instead, she grabs one of Sherlock's crappy old towels from the linen closet -- it's dingy, rough, and has the Hilton crest on it. Of course he steals towels from hotels. Of course he does.

Joan feels a lot better after her shower, more capable of handling the damn fruit flies. She has a whole plan. She just needs pants.

Her plan is thrown off when she exits the bathroom wrapped in a towel to see Sherlock exiting her bedroom, carefully shutting the door.

"Sherlock! What were you _doing_ in _my_ room?" she demands, clutching at the towel despite herself.

"Ah," he says. He sucks on his lips and then clears his throat. "Well, you did give me permission to remove the offending mug of food --" He holds up a plastic bag full of moving black objects. She shudders. Flies. "-- and I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to collect _Drosophila melanogaster_ for some genetic experiments I have been meaning to perform. Of course, this means I will need you to stay out of your room for several days while I collect my specimens --"

" _Sherlock._ "

"I have cleaned out the second room," he says abruptly, "and moved your clothing. I noticed you like to wear your shorts after a run, and dark clothing when you are angry with me, and you do not like to wear the pink shirt but I prefer you in it on Saturday mornings." He clears his throat again. "I also made sure you have clean linens of the brand you prefer as well as several pillows."

She stares at him. "Sherlock," she says again, making her voice softer this time.

"I also moved your alarm clocks, although I _have_ noticed that you have not required their use in the time we've been working together, and for that I take full credit, thank you." He pushes past her to the stairs -- careful, she notes, to keep the bag with the food and flies -- _flies!_ \-- away from her.

She slowly turns to the other door and opens it. The scent of honey is strong, and the bees must be right above, because she thinks maybe she can hear them.

Her alarm clocks are plugged in. Her tablet is charging. The bed is made -- hospital corners, she notes, even though Sherlock wouldn't make his own bed if held at gunpoint.

Actually, he would be far less likely to make his own bed if held at gunpoint than if whomever wanted him to make the bed presented a reasonable and logical argument.

Her clothes are folded on a small tv table, even underwear. That damn pink shirt Sherlock apparently loves. Her two favorite necklaces. Socks. Her boots are lined up under the table. And on the bedside table, next to the alarm clock, two books on forensics.

She pulls her phone out from the pile of sweaty running clothes, and texts him. _Thank you._ She hesitates, wondering if she should add something else, but decides to leave it at that. That way, he can ignore her, or keep it, or respond, whatever he's comfortable with.

Maybe she can teach by example how to respect space.

  



End file.
